He had been called ‘Tiger’ from the very beginning. ‘Andrew’, bestowed at the font, had never been used by anyone except his mother in moments of impatience. She had died when he was fifteen and from then on to his father he was always ‘Tiger’. He had gone off the rails a bit after her death. Nothing disastrous, but one or two run-ins with the law for drinking more than he should on a Saturday night, and the occasional AWOL to which his father had turned a blind eye.

But when he left school and refused any form of higher education the paternal foot had been put down. Old man Wilson knew that if he didn’t enforce discipline now then heaven knows what would befall his son.

He pushed Tiger in the direction of the only career he had ever known himself–the RAF. At first Tiger had rebelled. The services with their structured lifestyle were the last thing he wanted. He sought freedom; an escape from the routine of most men’s daily lives. But then he discovered flying. The feeling of liberation, at that moment when he penetrated the cloud layer for the first time in an aircraft under his own control, would never leave him. It was the ultimate independence.

He came home with a light in his eyes and told his father of the moment when he knew that a life in the air was for him.

His father smiled knowingly and reached down a book from the shelf beside his chair. Purposefully he thumbed through the pages until he found what he wanted, then handed the book to his son, pointing at the verse on the left-hand page.

Tiger read it slowly:

‘Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds–and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of; wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air;

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,

Where never lark nor even eagle flew;

And while, with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.’

Tiger closed the book, looked up and met his father’s eye. ‘Thank you.’

His father shrugged. ‘I’m glad you found it. Found yourself.’

Tiger never received the acclaim his father enjoyed–high ranking and decorated for his wartime exploits–but he was a respected helicopter pilot and left the service with the rank of Squadron Leader.